


A Shrine to Sisyphus

by SandrC



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fuck Barry Oak, Spoilers for Episode 42: Henry's Father and the Chamber of Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26494609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: Sis·y·phe·an — /ˌsisəˈfēən/adjective: (of a task) such that it can never be completed.A young Henry Oak repairs a mirror.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	A Shrine to Sisyphus

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I have an idea and just...go full feral.
> 
> When Oakvale is over, it's over for y'all. I'll write shit other than Henry. I promise this.
> 
> I just had this idea of Henry, fingers bloodied, trying desperately to fix something that was never going to work, all for the approval of a father who doesn't love him. And thusly? This.

Glass shards are small. Mending spells don't work on magic. He can't _fix_ what he doesn't have _all of_. The splinters lodge under his nails and the oozing blood and blackened scabs make his work even harder.

Candlelight is not conducive to detail-oriented work but _when else_ can he do this? Not during the day. Father needs him to attend to the commune's needs during the day. So nighttime. Candlelight. Headaches and blurry vision.

It's a blessing, he supposes, that the elven blood in him is stronger than the human blood, and he only needs four hours a night. Otherwise he would be useless.

(Moreso than _usual_. His pronunciation was imperfect during affirmations. His body language too tense when he communed with the brothers and sisters of the forest. His hands too shaky when he helped harvest the crops. Blackberry prickers and sharp stones tore into the palm of his hands. He tried his best not to bleed on anything that was eaten raw. He _still_ was chastised for his incompetence with the same disappointment as always. He could do _better_ than this. _Why wasn't he better?_ )

Glass shards and small bits of glittering sand. Mending after Mending to make the dust into thin slivers, slivers into shards, shards into pieces, and pieces into something resembling a puzzle. Late nights spent well into the lightening dawn slowly and secretly arranging the pieces into place and Mending them so they would bind and become more whole.

(Mornings where he wasn't _good enough_ because he was tired and he messed up sunrise yoga and that's all he would hear about for the rest of the day, until the sun set and it was back to the mirror again, _promising_ himself he _would_ be good enough if he could do this. _He would be good enough. **He would be good enough.**_ He _would_ be.)

Magic isn't something he's particularly good at. Magic comes _so easy_ to his father but doing seventeen or so Mendings—a simple cantrip, a _0th_ _level spell_ , so easy a _baby_ can do it—wears him out and his fingers go numb from the exhaustion rather than the blood loss. But he knows that he has to power through the _easy_ parts to work on the _complex_ ones. Once the mirror is repaired, physically, it then has to be enchanted to get it to work. And artificing is _far_ more difficult than cantrips.

Besides, his father couldn't get it to work. So how was _he_ supposed to.

(He dreamt of being found out. Of being caught with a shard of glass in his hand and the guilt flooding his body with panic. Of lashing out in the anger his father said was _so ugly_ and injuring him or his mother or any of the other residents of the commune. Of killing someone, _despite_ the ward. Of what that would mean for him as a person _and_ the son of the Venerable Barry Oak. He had awoken those days in cold sweat and doubled his wards and Alarms. He _couldn't_ be caught unawares. He _couldn't_ let those dreams come to pass.)

The mirror is a glittering celadon pool against a brilliant silver back. The frame is burnished wood with gilt paint designs inlaid with cabochon cut gems that mimic the petals of flowers, teardrop shaped curves catching the eye while reflecting light away from the surface, no matter the angle of the source. The whole of it is _beautiful_. His many weeks of Mendings are worth it.

Behind him, he can feel Alarm, _untouched_. He can feel his Hearth consume all of the light from his candle, refusing to let it be seen outside of his room. He can feel his Glyphs unbroken, his wards still in play.

Precautions. _Warnings_. Even if he _was_ to be Scryed upon, he would know. And _all_ of it to impress his father.

(His temper boiled beneath his skin. _In through the nose, out through the mouth._ It wasn't just Horsey today, but his mother, his father, and _anyone_ who got too close or talked too loud or did one thing wrong. He had near bitten his tongue raw for the effort of not speaking. _In through the nose, out through the mouth._ But it would all be worth it, if only to see the acceptance in his father's eyes. Just a _little_ longer. _In through the nose, out through the mouth_.)

Scrying. Planar travel. Illusion. Transmutation. Divination. _All_ of these things wound into one item and it is _no wonder_ his father lost his temper. This is complicated to the point of _infuriating_ but this is a puzzle that he can poke and prod at. Artificing is the name of the game but the result is _acceptance_.

Complexity is simplicity in concentric circles. Perfection _can_ be achieved. He simply has to _try_.

Scrying, to look, observe, but _secretly_ and on a larger scale. _Broader_. Without knowledge of the place or places. Divination in wide strokes and _without_ the knowledge of it. Closer to Clairvoyance than anything else. _Both_ maybe. _Far_ from his purview of conjuration but he can be flexible. Adhering to one school is a wizard's folly and he is _far_ from a wizard.

Planar travel. Blink and Planar Shift are good basises. _To_ _tear_ , yes, but _superficially_. To part a translucent layer open to allow for observation, like an insect in a jar. So it requires _finesse_. More than just the standard brute force of transmutation. Closer to peeling an apple than cutting an orange. And _still_ only a piece of the whole. A careful hand can be cultivated from weeks on months of careful Mending and inscription. He has the framework for detail. He simply has to _apply_ it.

Projection means illusion. Minor Image isn't complex _enough_ , Hypnotic Pattern is too _detrimental_ with its charming effect—though he, _himself_ is resistant due to his heritage—and dangerous. Major image is _closer_ but is a three dimensional projection and he needs only two. So it's cutting and chopping and screwing until the spell feels good. Making something new of somethings old.

And in the end, he finds a way to marry all three pieces.

(He was _certain_ father knew. He kept looking at him strange, with a furrow in his brow, like he was _pondering_ something. He didn't ask him to lead his followers in morning yoga, like he _had_ been. He didn't ask him to commune with the animals to learn the morning's truth. He didn't ask him to assist in the harvest. He asked _nothing_ of him. That set him on edge. Father _rarely_ did anything without reason. Even the mirror was to test him. If he could finish it, he would be _worthy_. It would be worth his time. So this change in routine was father testing his resolve. And he did not break down. He _persevered._ )

_It's complete_. All three spells took to the engraved backing of the mirror. The image is pulled through a named clairvoyant spot above the desired plane, the veil pulled thin as onion skin, the whole projected on the surface of the mirror like a glittering lake of magic and majesty. Elation steals the breath from Henry's chest and he cannot _wait_ to show father what he has accomplished. That he can do great things. That _he is worth the effort._

The veil tears _too_ thin. The Planes _rupture_. A soft, panicked noise tears itself from his throat as he scrambles to find purchase on something, _anything_ , in his room.

But the residents of Oakvale live a simple lifestyle. Even Henry, who is by _all rights_ a _prince_ , lives in a modest home with modest trappings. A wooden chair and a wooden desk are not enough to stop a rift from consuming him.

He screams for his father. _For help. **For anyone.**_

But nobody came.

(The feeling of forgetting is a nostalgic one. It rings, hollow, against his ribs. Plays sorrow on his clavicle. Pulls his heartstrings in diminished chords. Demands his voice cry exaltations. It scoops and tears and the pain pricks his eyes and when it is done he cannot tell you _why_ he is hurt, only _that_ he is hurting. And he aches for remembering and he fears the return.)

_A man pushes a boulder up a hill. Fingers ripped **bloody** by the jagged glassy edges of this supposed sphere. The fine decorations of the hill he walks upon are gilt paint on burnished wood, his footsteps a hollow heartbeat, bare feet dirtying what is an artistic feat. The sky is inlaid with fine cabochons that draw the eye from the celadon surface and he finds himself lost in the dreaming. Mid-push, near the summit, he **trips** and **stumbles** and the boulder rolls to the bottom of the hill and he, **beleaguered** , begins again. He cannot stop. He has to do this. He has to prove he is good enough._

_Even if the task he has assigned himself is fruitless in his endeavors._

(The wooden frame of the mirror is stained dark with blood. His father smiles with immense pride. He is not there to see that _nor_ the anguished elation in his mother's face when she gets the news. But for all her foolish hope, he will return and there will be a banquet. What was lost _will_ be back, the wandering son, and Barry will forgive. Then _all_ will be right in this world once more.)


End file.
